Dying Fall by Judith Cutler Page B

Shahida and Richard kept eyeing me with concern. As we split up to go to our classes, Shahida gave me a quick hug.
    Richard hung back. ‘You’re sure you don’t need some time off?’
    I smiled at him sadly: he’d want to know about Manjit, might be able to help her, but I could no more confide in him than she in me.
    â€˜Remember, all you have to do is ask. Call me at home if you need me: I’m always ready to help.’
    I nodded my thanks. I didn’t expect to have to take him up on his offer before the weekend was over.
    Saturday morning’s rehearsal with the MSO started off as a fairly flat affair. Stobbard Mayou’s rhinitis was better, but he was much more dour than I’d seen him. Aberlene and Jools had come on to the platform together, obviously in mid-row. But they’d settled in their places, and provided no entertainment for the onlookers. When the break came, I opened my coffee and Mo went to the loo. I sat there gloomily. Normally I’d have sought out George. And there was something more trivial to worry about too. I kept getting the feeling that Mayou was looking at me. With no great affection, either. Very odd, since we’d parted on the best of terms on Thursday, and I wasn’t singing out of tune. Then there was a movement beside me: Aberlene. She sat down and accepted the remains of the coffee.
    â€˜This must be very hard for you,’ she said. ‘The first rehearsal without George. Bad enough for us playing on Monday. You know we played something in his memory. Not
Nimrod.
Mayou and the soloist got together and decided to do the
Adagio
from Mozart’s d minor concerto. John Murray. Nice man, as well as being a great pianist.’
    I nodded. One day I’d turned up at George’s to find John Murray flat on his back under George’s sink.
    â€˜Are you all right, by the way?’ It was crude but I didn’t feel very subtle today.
    â€˜Fine. Apart from bloody Jools, that is. Sophie, she’s really pissing me off at the moment. I know she’s a friend of yours, but I’ve got to sound off at someone. You know she’s always had a bit of a reputation for hobnobbing with guest soloists and conductors?’
    I nodded. ‘George used to loathe it. Used to make awful jokes about officers and other ranks.’
    â€˜I mean, she was all over that violinist, Jacques Whatshisname – the one that had the accident.’
    The young man in question had fallen from his hotel room in Rome a week after he’d played in Birmingham. There was a strong rumour he’d been trying to fly, but it had been discreetly hushed up.
    â€˜And now she’s in and out of Mayou’s room as if they were best buddies. Which I’m sure they’re not. They have the most awful rows.’
    â€˜She seems to have the most awful rows with everyone,’ I said. ‘Including me. What was she having a go at you for?’
    But Mayou was already coming on to the stage, and Aberlene had to scuttle to her place.
    The second half of the rehearsal was much more impressive. Apart from an awful bout of sneezing, Mayou was altogether more alert, and he contrived to wake us up too. He sang all the choir parts – simultaneously, it seemed. He pushed aside the stool and reached and dipped, scooping music from the air. Five minutes in, he pulled off his sweatshirt to reveal an Oxfam T-shirt, a textbook set of muscles and, when the T-shirt lifted with his arms, a golden torso that simply demanded to be touched.
    We allowed ourselves to be seduced.
    And then it was all over. A smile and a wave and he was gone.
    Mo sighed, reached into her handbag, produced a spray and covered herself with Opium.
    And she covered me.
    My sneezes rivalled Mayou’s. My eyes flooded. Any moment now I’d succumb to an attack of asthma. Thank God for Ventolin. But I was still wheezing and crying when Tony Rossiter ran into me – almost literally